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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



THE DREAM OF ART 
AND OTHER POEMS 
BY ESPY WILLIAMS 



G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 

NEW YORK LONDON 

27 WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET 24 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND 

tbc liitidurbockfi- ^rcss 



21 1892 

? 2,7^7 A 







Copyright, 1892, 

BV 

ESPY WILLIAMS. 

\All 7-ights reser7'ed?\ 



Printed and Bound by 

■Cbe IRnicfterbocfter press, IRew iJorft 

(G. P. PutK'am's Sons) 



A TOKEN OF REGARD TO 

PAGE M. BAKER 

AND 

MARION A. BAKER 

CRITICS AND FRIENDS 



Jew Orleans, 1892. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

The Dream of Art i 

" Where is the Christ?" 5 

PfeRE Antoine's Palm ... 7 

The Poet 8 

Love's Eternity 10 

Queen Maude 12 

Rex 13 

" Yovin' an' a Kiss " 15 

Licet 17 

An Epitaph 18 

Past and Present 19 

Davis 20 

Grant 21 

Lawrence Barrett 22 

Bras-Coupe 23 

DoM Pedro 24 

At Cambridge, Mass 25 

Upon an Epitaph 26 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Count Camora 29 

Ahasuerus 51 

Somewhere 66 

A Wedding Gift in Rhyme 68 

Niagara 70 

" What IS Love?" 71 

A Love Song 73 

Romance 74 

Loving is Life's Measure 76 

M' Aimee 78 

A Portrait 80 

Inspiration 81 

The Atheist ^ 85 

Critics — A Libel q8 



THE DREAM OF ART. 

Within the Sculptor's heart and brain 

A secret, sleeping, it had lain 

Through all the weary years of life. 

Whose wreck was strewn with fruitless strife. 

But now upon his manhood's prime 

It should awaken for all time, 

And with his Art's immortal fame 

Forever crown his mortal name. — 

Thus, as he deftly worked his clay. 
The Sculptor dreamed toil's hour away. 

'T was done ! and prone before his eyes 
In dull, moist clay, wrought artistwise, 
His secret thought in beauty lies. 
Moulded for its immortal guise. 
I 



THE DREAM OF ART. 

No more within his heart's deep core 

Shall it be hidden as of yore, 

But soon in rustless bronze its grace 

Shall bring glad wonder to each face, 

Until in every grateful heart 

'T will grow in time a joyous part. — 

Thus, as he gazed upon his clay, 

The Sculptor dreamed rest's hour away. 

Then, with a weary hand and head, 
The Sculptor followed as Sleep led 
Through mystic, labyrinthine ways, 
To where her sweet oblivion lays 
The benediction of deep rest 
On every yielding mortal's breast ; 
When, lo ! with sudden start, a fear 
Banished his vision's glowing cheer ! 
He saw his threshold softly crossed 
By the dumb, hoary Ghost of Frost ; 



THE DREAM OF ART. 

He saw it steal unto his clay, 

And, with a breath of frozen spray, 

Encompass it as with a spell ; 

Then saw the shapeless dust that fell, 

All that survived of ruined Art, 

From the wrecked treasure of his heart. — 



Thus, as he slept beside his clay. 

The Sculptor dreamed sleep's hour away. 



The morning came, and there was found 
A sleeping Sculptor whom no sound 
Of mortal prayer or mortal mirth, 
Would e'er again awake on earth ; 
For the hoar Ghost, with icy breath, 
Had breathed o'er him the spell of death. 
While, near its dead creator, lay 
Shrouded, to keep the frost away, 
With his scant pallet's meagre spread. 
And the thin cloak that eked his bed. 



THE DREAM OF ART. 

The treasured clay, — but fruitless care ! 
The frost had written ruin there ; 
And the dead Sculptor's wealth of toil 
Was frozen, fissured, crumbling soil ! — 

Thus, dead beside his ruined clay. 

The Sculptor dreamed life's dream away. 



"WHERE IS THE CHRIST?" 

He walked the street, in darkness clad, 

One stormy Christmas night, 
While darkness closed about his heart 

And cowed his spirit's might. 

"Where is the Christ ? "— his rent soul cried, 
" Whose deathless birth, this day, 

The centuried past has glorified, 
While He has passed away?" 

" Where is the Christ ? " — a voice replied, 

Faint, tremulous with woe. 
Forth from the darkness at his side, — 

" Follow, and I will show." 

Low on a pallet, hard and bare. 
She fell, with pent grief wild, 

5 



" WHERE IS THE CHRIST?" 

And kissed the starved, dead infant there, 
And cried — " Behold, — my child. 

" Lo, Christ is here ! in this dear form 
That breathed to scarce know breath, — 

Whose life has fled earth's wintry harm, — 
Lo, Christ is still in death ! " 



PERE ANTOINE'S PALM. 

Dead, in its grave a hundred years, 

His earthly body lies ; 
Alive, his soul's pure love still rears 

Its symbol to our eyes. 

No crown of burnished earthly deed 

With us his memory wears, — 
Only the love whose mystic seed 

With him death's life now shares. 

O stranger Palm, whose strange life blends 

Four lives and loves in one, — 
Each, back through thee, death's message sends 

" On earth His will be done." 



THE POET. 

" Idle thoughts are poets' fancies — 
Phantom hope, and erring fear ; 

Joy — that for the hour entrances, 
Grief — that passes with a tear ! 

Why then waste among the Muses 

Time best put to better uses ? " — 

Thus the World-Man, tinsel-hearted, 
Chid the Poet deep in thought ; 

But the Poet, golden-hearted, 

Loved his work, and loving wrought. 

Then the World-Man smiled his pity. 

And returned to cheat the City. 

Years, — and lo ! the Poet's treasure, — 
Pearls of thought, and diamond song, 

In a tome of perfect measure. 

Stole into the world's great throng ; 

8 



THE POET. 

Filled it with surprise and pleasure, 
Till it sought and prized the treasure. 

" Priceless thoughts are poets' fancies, 
Bringing hope, dispelling fear, — 

Joy — that every hour enhances, 
Griefs — that ease us with a tear ! 

For their gift of heavenly thought 

Poets should be loved and sought." — 

Thus the World-Man, fashion-hearted. 
Praised the Poet, bought his song, 

While the minstrel, constant-hearted, 
For his love, forgot past wrong, — 

Smiled in modest silence, weaving 

Golden thoughts for future sheaving. 

Years, — and all unknown, forgotten, 
Sleeps the World-Man lost in death. 

But the Poet hath begotten. 
Lasting life in every breath. 

And his grave is but a token 

Of a life by death unbroken. 



LOVE'S ETERNITY. 

Little angel, from above, — 
Living pledge of living love, — 
In thy spirit life we see 
Love's divine eternity. 

Heaven still lingers in thine eyes ; 
And the pure of paradise 
Still their loving vigils keep 
O'er thy slumber sweet and deep. 

Little angel, here on earth 
May thy life be full of worth ; 
P'ull of giving, winful love. 
Like life's perfect life above. 

Still may heaven bless thy sight, 
Still may angels guide thee right. 



LOVE'S ETERNITY. II 

Still thy life be pure from sin, 
Blessings still to give and win. 

Little angel, — then above, — 
Still love's pledge of living love, — 
Thy made-perfect life shall be 
Love's fulfilled eternity. 



QUEEN MAUDE. 

The blue of heaven in her eyes, 
The sheen of sunshine on her hair, 

A joyous heart, so winning-wise 
She reigns despotic everywhere. 

Oh, happy queen, whose reign is love, 
Whose realm is in each heart we know, 

Whom only the Great King above 

Can summon from thy reign below, — 

Whate'er thy wayward mandate be, 
One heart beats true in time to thine. 

One mute, unquestioning devotee 
Bows low before thy spirit's shrine. 



REX. 

My darling boy, my darling boy ! 

God gave thee unto me 
To teach me life's divinest joy, 

Love's purest ecstasy. 
While through the windows of thine eyes 
I catch a glimpse of Paradise. 

Ah, happy, prattling, laughing sprite ! 

My King by right divine ! 
Thou rulest with a love-born might. 

To bend all hearts to thine ; 
Till conquered upon every hand 
We live alone for thy command. 

My darling boy, my darling boy ! 

God gave thee unto me 
To keep thee free from earth's alloy, 
13 



14 REX. 

Life's every misery ; 
To lead thee till thy manhood's gaze 
Shall pierce beyond earth's mortal days. 

Ah, then, thou prattling, laughing sprite ! 

True King, of right divine ! 
Thou still shalt rule with love-born might 

To bind all hearts to thine, 
Till last the incense of just praise 
Embalm the memory of thy days. 



"YOVIN' AN' A KISS." 

When the faint forelight of morning 

Steals upon our slumber's hush, 
And half timid and half boldly 

Through the casement throws its blush, 
I am wakened from my dreaming 

By a voice I ne'er would miss. 
Nestling close and softly whispering, 

" Yet 's p'ay yovin' an' a kiss." 

When the golden flakes of sunshine 

Crown with noon the regal day, 
And around the board are gathered 

Hearts that tend us on life's way ; 
Ere our daily bread is broken, 

Comes the sound I would not miss. 
While two little arms twine round me, 

"Yet 's p'ay yovin' an' a kiss." 
15 



1 6 " YOVIN' AN' A /r/SS." 

When o'er evening's living shadows 

Silent falls the dead of night, 
And with feet and head play-weary 

Sleep begins to cloud her sight ; 
When her " Lay me " prayer is ended, 

Comes the prayer I ne'er would miss, 
From those lips whose kisses bless me, 

" Yet 's p'ay yovin' an' a kiss." 

And when last my eyelids heavy 

Close to all save happy dreams, 
Through each vision that may haunt me 

One bright child-face ever beams ; 
And I hear in dreamy whispers 

Those loved accents full of bliss, 
While dream-kisses thrill my slumber — 

" Yet 's p'ay yovin' an' a kiss." 



LICET. 

I WONDER if any know, — 

Who dance in this room to-night, 
That a corpse, whose life had crowned love's glow, 

Lay coffined here in death's sad plight ? 

I wonder, would any pause 

In their laughter, jest or song, 
If they knew the living, callous cause 

That drove that heart from earth's glad throng ? 

I wonder — that life is life ? 

And knows death only by touch ? — 
Who cares for death's sorrow, sin or strife. 

While our own are free from their clutch ? 



17 



AN EPITAPH. 

He lived ; — and in his short life's meed 
With humble, unassuming heart, 
Unfalteringly he filled his part 

To th^ full mete of his own creed. 

He died ; — and memory shall raise. 
Higher than any mortal fame. 
This epitaph to his good name : — 

His life was full of perfect days. 



i8 



PAST AND PRESENT. 

I. 

What is the Past ? — A checkered dream 
Of dying joy and deathless woe ; 

The memory of the thing we seem, 
The mockery of the thing we know. 



What is the Present ? — Tempting Naught ! 

A changeful dream, still incomplete ; 
A web by lying Fancy wrought 

Where baffled fools in wonder meet. 



19 



DAVIS. 

He hath won victory at last in death ! 
And loving faith, and faithful love, 
Have led him, hand in hand, above 

The praises or the blame of mortal breath. 

Oh ye whose wanton, fruitless hatred still 
Sought to destroy his peace of life, — 
Let death's long silence hush your strife, 

And leave his fate to Time's impartial will. 

And ye within whose palms he ever lay 
A comrade's ever loving hand, 
Now, past defeat, behold him stand 

Your comrade still in death's eternal day. 



GRANT. 

He is not greatest who by bloody deeds 
Mounts to the pinnacle of war's renown ; 
Who bears upon his brow the victor's crown, 

And tramples under foot the foe who bleeds ; 

But he, who rises to his country's needs, 

And wears but for occasion battle's frown ; — 
Who, when his duty 's done, his foeman down, 

Foremost for fallen, misspent valor pleads. 

He is the greatest : and his crown of fame, — 
A monument to peace though wrought by war, — 
Endures, his country's glory, pride, and gain ! 

Even as thine, whose honored war-won name. 
Upon the lips of nations near and far. 
Rose in a requiem o'er thy life's refrain. 



LAWRENCE BARRETT. 

His was the Poet's mind, whose subtle ken 

With loving purpose searched the realm of Art, 
To win the golden secrets of her heart 

And lay them tribute on the souls of men. 

His was the Soldier's heart, whose ready hand 
Grasped with an earnest will the needed steel. 
Yet ne'er forgot 't was human still to feel. 

And tempered with love's pity war's command. 

His was the Brother's hand, whose open palm, 
In silence sought, with loving, fruitful deed, 
The drooping heart and weary hand of need, 

And poured upon affliction heaven's balm. 

And his the Christian's soul, whose spirit-sight 
Pierced the dark confines of its prisoned life, 
And through earth's lowering clouds of worldly strife 

Still caught a glimpse of life's celestial Light. 

March 21, 1891. 



BRAS-COUPE. 

THE GRANDISSIMES, CHAPTER XXIX. 

Thou King — yet captive ! human — yet a slave ! — 
Yet He whose word those iron sinews wrought, 
Fashioned that brow — a crucible for thought, 
To thee that majesty of manhood gave 
With will endowed to do, and strength to brave, — 
Wrought He the woe with which thy life is fraught, 
That thou shouldst live to have been sold and bought. 
And find thine only rest in murder's grave ? — 
Yes ! — like some martyred saint of old, whose death 
Gave to his holy work immortal breath, 

And power divine the future world to save. 
So wert thou doomed to drink deep life's disgrace. 
And aid the great redemption of thy race, — 

Thou King — though captive ! human — though a slave ! 



23 



DOM PEDRO. 

Highest on earth's best pinnacle of fame ! 
Imperial not in rank alone but deed, — 
His heart the subject of his subject's need ; 

And yet they branded his unsullied name 

As with a merited, ignoble shame ; 

Crushed with the heel of empire's wanton greed 
The soul that ne'er caused worthiness to bleed !- 

— O slaves, whose freedom was his crowning aim, 

Have ye forgotten from whence freedom came ? 
O fi^eemen, in whose lap he laid with pride 
The sumptuous harvest of his peaceful reign ; 

Beware, lest ruthless history proclaim 

Your deed a scorn for time to still deride, — 
And his rent crown the blazon of your stain ! 



24 



AT CAMBRIDGE, MASS. 

Briskly across the close cropt college green, 
And thence along the well worn gravel way, 
With mien and gait impatient of delay ; 
A slouch felt hat beneath whose rim is seen 
A mass of uncropt hair, whose silver sheen 
Gives to the eyes that burn beneath its white 
A darker lustre and a deeper sight ; 
And, for the day was chill and east wind keen, 
An overcoat, a threadbare, dingy gray, 

And round his neck a faded worsted tie. — 
I paused in wonder as he hurried by : 
For this was he whose song is like to Day, 
Coursing the world to hold unrivalled sway, 
To crown him with Fame's immortality ! 



25 



UPON AN EPITAPH. 

" Gone to his rest." — And is it rest, 

This cold decay beneath the sod ? 
This mystery deemed sin's bequest, 

Yet deemed the pathway unto God ? 
Gone to his rest ? Vain, shallow thought ! 

There is no rest where there is life ! 
Death's rest is superstition wrought 

From life's immortal wearing strife. 
He wins no rest whose mortal part 

Lies in the change of life's decay, 
Whose spirit essences depart 

Into death's darkness or death's day ; 
His gain if aught is new, enduring life, 
More, keener senses, and successful strife ! 



COUNT CAMORA 



A TALK OF MEXICO 



COUNT CAMORA 



A TALE OF MEXICO. 



One day in Mexico, — no need to name 
The place, — with her, the angel of my life, 
Entering an old and cheerless convent cell 
We found a monk, — old and as gray with time 
As the bare stones that shut him from the world, — 
Sitting upon a couch of stone hewn from 
The farther wall. He saw us, and he smiled 
A strange and troubled smile, and bade us welcome. 
He was the oldest of the holy band 
Whose home had been this convent many years, — 
Longer than he remembered, and his years 
Were reckoned near unto a century. 
Somewhile he gazed at us in silence, till 
At length, for lack of else I chanced to ask 
29 



30 Count c a mora. 

Who and what was Don Alva, Count Camora, 
Whose grave we had just seen before the altar. 
The sound of that name startled him ; and o'er 
His face, and from his eyes there beamed a light 
As of young days returning ; but his brow 
Grew suddenly into a stern, hard frown, 
And his thin bloodless lips grew more comprest, 
And his eye glazed with something like still scorn, 
As thus he spoke : 

" Don Alva, — Count Camora? 
Who and what was he ? — ha ! ha ! — why, seilor, 
He was a man, — a mighty man ! nay, more, — 
He was a " 

Then with sudden laugh he stopped. 
And she who at my side stood like a rose 
In perfect bloom, — a queen of loveliness 
Among all lovely things ! begged that we leave. 
Nor further rouse the old man's memories, 
So full of pain, — for so indeed they seemed. 
But ere we might depart, again he spake : 



COUNT CAM OR A. 3 I 

" Seiior, — seiiora, — would you hear a tale 
Of life and love and death, such as they were 
In this demented land of flowers, full now 
Threescore of years gone by, listen ; 't is of 
This same Don Alva, Count Camora, whose 
Tombstone you may have seen within our chapel. 
True ! but whose body " 

Here again he stopped, 
With the same sudden laugh we heard before. 
And bade us then be seated. Then a pause, 
And with new life and earnest he began 
And told his story, — told the blood-true tale 
Of Alva, Count Camora, thus ; — speaking, 
(And this was strange, although I liked it so,) 
Always unto the fair one at my side. 



" Don Alva de Camora ! years now gone 
I knew him well, yes ! knew him all his life, 
Even from childhood's sunny days ; and now 



32 COUNT C A MORA. 

As he was in his manhood's stately prime 

I picture him ! and yet, seiiora, he 

Was nothing handsome as the fair ones deem. 

His frame was then a counterpart to mine, — 

At least so many said, — a strong iron frame, 

A frame for mighty deads of force and strength — 

Such as of old a warrior knight had held 

A gift from heaven betokening success. 

"And he was wealthy; thrice ten hundred slaves 
Wore out the burden of their lives beneath 
His stern command, while day by day they wrought 
Steady increasing wealth from out his lands, — 
His lands, whose acres numbered many thousands. 

" Of all his lands two choice estates he had, 
Apart some twenty miles ; the one near to 
The strand to where the salt winds of the gulf 
Wafted the ships to bear his harvests hence ; 
The other inland, and hedged round about 
With wood and table land ; — this was his best 



COUNT C A MORA. 33 

Loved place, for here his wife and children dwelt, — 
Here in a home of more than luxury, — 
A very paradise for earthly bliss ! 

" And she, for whom this was, — Lola, his wife ? 
Not all the fabled beauties of all time, 
Though all their excellences were in one 
Conjoined, and that one blest with grace 
Of heaven's most perfect loveliness, could equal, 
In his enraptured sight, her queenly worth. 
In wealth of beauty, mind, and soul. 

— Senora, 
Love is a thing perchance the same throughout 
All time ; — as deep, life-giving, full as strong 
For good and ill, for misery and joy, 
For benediction and for curse, as when 
The seed of Eden's exiles felt its power. 
Yes, love is love ! Yet sometimes I have thought, 
When noting how Don Alva loved his wife, — 
Yes ! and how she did glory in his love, — 

3 



34 COUNT C A MORA. 

That theirs was something more than earthly love, 

A passion more intense, more purely pure. 

More like the love with which the saints love God. 

" As they did love each other, so they loved 
Their children, — three. The first, a winsome lad, 
Upon whose face and head six summer suns 
Had left their glow and gold ; the next, a girl. 
Just three, — her mother's little counterpart, — 
A bit of lovely night moulded in form 
And made more lovely by the breath of life ; 
And last, love's latest gift, a babe, whose breath 
Had yet not tasted of one season's change. 

" Next unto these, his wife and children, Alva 

Cherished a friend — Don Romero ; a man 

Ten years his younger, born of noble blood, 

But brought by poverty unto that pass 

Where life must labor if 't would still be life. 

So Alva knew him first, first honored him 

For that he dared spurn pride and be a free man ; 



COUNT C A MORA. 35 

And then as his great worth and value grew, 
He raised him step by step until at length 
He made him his vice-regent o'er his lands ; 
And last of all, he raised him to his love, 
And made him sharer with his wife of all 
His life's most secret hopes and aims. 

— Senora, 
Methinks I read my story's end forecast 
From your blanched cheek and overstartled eye. 
Perhaps ; — 't is old as passion, — old as crime ! 

" Don Romero was handsome ; such a man 

As in the ancient days men deified, 

And dreamt of as the sovereign powers of heaven ; 

Such as in these days women deify 

And make the powers of earth ! — Alva knew not 

How great a power poor earthly beauty was 

Until he felt the curse of being homely. 

" Let me be brief. 



36 COUNT CAMORA. 

— " Time passed, and Romero 
Blossomed to fulness in his bright career, 
Warmed by Don Alva's love, and — it was whispered, - 
By Lola's ! — Lola's ? Alva dreamt not that ! 
And he 't would seem who had most cause to know, 
Most chance to spy suspicion, would not be 
The last to catch the scandal, whispered low, 
As if in very fear that he should hear it ! 
But last he did hear, and — why then, Seilora, 
Then Alva proved — a man— only a man. 

" Pass o'er the agony of doubt ; the woe 
Of seeking still what most he would not find, — 
Proof of his wife's wrong doing ; such things live 
Alone in those minds who have tasted them, — 
And the soul's nightmares cannot be described ! 
Suffice he found no proof ; yet all the stronger 
Therefor grew his suspicions, — for 't is strange, 
Yet true, that foul suspicions when pursued 
Gather a thousand viler to their van. 
Until their legion never can be conquered." 



COUNT CAMORA. 37 



"At length there came a day when Alva, crazed 

Past further 'durance, swore to end his doubts. 

His wife, his children, and himself were then 

At the estate inland ; Don Romero 

At that upon the coast. Bright with the dawn 

That day Alva sent post to Romero 

Bidding him come to him. Then to his wife, — 

Lola the beautiful, whose heart and soul 

That morning seemed o'erfilled with love, — 

He bade farewell ; telling her (naught but truth) 

That he went hence to feast a company 

Of merchants — (buyers of his land's rich fruits 

And so part builders of his fortunes), — at his place 

Upon the gulf coast ; — more ; he bade her say 

To Romero when he should come, that he 

Should not leave thence till his return, but keep 

His eye, so vigilant unto success. 

Upon his slaves and crops. He would be gone 

Six days at least, — perhaps as many more. 



38 COUNT C A MORA. 

" Then left he, with the dew of his wife's lips 
On his — the fevered breath of his on hers. 

" Something there was in his strange mien, his voice, 

That brought the tears to Lola's anxious eyes 

As from her casement she beheld him leave, — 

Watching him till the distance closed him in 

And wrapt him in impenetrable space, — 

Something that o'er her spirit wrought a gloom 

And filled her day with fears, — of what she knew not. 

" At length night came, and with it came the feast, — 

A prince's banquet ! all that wealth could give 

To fill the most capricious guest with joy 

And send him home full sated with content. 

And every guest seemed full of warmth and life. 

And lost whole-souled in the night's gaiety ; 

And more than any guest within his halls 

Seemed Alva lost in joy. Yet it was marked 

By those who long had known him, that at whiles 

A sudden pallor would o'erspread his face 



COUNT C A MORA. 39 

To give a kind of mockery to his laugh, 

And rob his jest of mirth. Then would he say 

(To those who noted and inquired the cause 

Of his death-paleness) that he felt a strange 

And sudden sickness at such times come o'er him, 

And with the sickness an intense strange fear 

Of ill o'erbrooding those he left at home. 

But hardly would he speak these words, when life 

And mirth, with ruddy cheeks and laugh, once more 

Would claim him as their own, and bear him on 

In their bright tireless whirl of gaiety. 

" At length the hour of midnight struck, and then 
The wine and play usurped the banquet board. 
The tables were set round about, and in 
Self-chosen groups of four and six the guests 
Seated themselves to flirt awhile with Fortune. 

" Somewhile Don Alva played among the rest. 
But then his sickness taking him once more 
He 'rose, bidding the players still to deal, 
Nor mind his absence for a while ; that he 



40 COUNT CAM OR A. 

Would seat him by a window, where the air 
Fresh from the gulf would bring him to himself, 
And after there awhile he would rejoin them. 

" Seated beside the window, partly screened 
By the rich damask curtain, he gazed round 
And marked how every table in the hall 
Was held by earnest players, each man's soul 
Intent alone upon the game at hand. 
Nor noting those about him, nor the slaves 
Who noiselessly, unbid, kept filled the goblets 
At each one's hand ; — and as he noted this 
The pallor of his cheek became more pale. 
And his eye trembled as with fading sight. 
Quickly he left the hall, — first bidding them 
Whose partner he had been, to play their game 
Nor heed his absence ; — he would seek his room 
And would return ere long — much rested. 

— " Yes, 
'T was rest he needed ; he had travelled hard. 
And labored hard — (they answered) — for their pleasure, 



COUNT CAMORA. 4 1 

And he had earned the right to take some rest, 
Even though so he robbed them of his presence ! " 

— Here the monk paused ; and suddenly I saw 
For the first time that we two were alone. 
My bride had silently withdrawn, and I — 
(Even as Alva de Camora's guests 
At play saw not or noted not his absence) — 
Had not remarked her going. 

— *' Ah, Seiiora, 
[The monk once more, and still addressing her 
Who was not by, yet whom he seemed to see,] 
There wjs a kind of rest that Alva sought 
Beyond his guests' ken, — rest of soul from doubt. 
Or an eternal rest ! — a rest of love — or death ! 

" He reached his room ; and entering, locked the door. 

Then with a quickness that methinks hell sped, 

He changed his princely dress for one old worn, 

A very coat of rags ; then o'er his head 

And face he drew a bearded wig ; and, standing 



42 COUNT CAMORA. 

Before the mirror, did not know himself. 

Then from his window stepping out- upon 

The broad piazza roof, he reached a place 

Where an old muscadine had interlocked 

Its wiry sinews till it might have borne 

Thrice Alva's weight in traverse up or down. 

Down on this natural ladder Alva goes, 

And thence unto the stable, where his steed, 

True to his master's touch, knows him despite 

The darkness and disguise ; and soon — too soon ! — 

Alva is speeding hence — Whither, Seiiora ? 

To his place inland, twenty odd miles hence ! 

And he must reach there and be back again 

Ere the cocks crow for morn. 

" That morn as he had ridden to the coast. 

His gold had bought him secret, fast relays 

Which were to wait for him such time that night, 

Not on the highway, but a road disused. 

That lay through field and'wood, whereon the chance 

Was little for his meeting with a soul. 



COUNT C A MORA. 43 

Thus on with speed of thought he sped, — and yet 
His patience failed him still, and each relay, 
Though passed seemed but to make the next more dis- 
tant. 
At last breaking from out the woodland's screen, 
He saw his inland home, — a shadow black 
Against the star-bestudded night as that 
Which shut out heaven's brightness from his soul. 
Then slower he approached, till from the black 
And growing shadow of the house there beamed 
One little gleam of light, — like the one hope 
That glimmered through the shadow o'er his soul. 
That light beaconed him to his Lola's chamber. 
Dismounting he made fast his steed, and with 
A quick yet cautious tread entered the yard. 
Fierce bloodhounds held the watch, but they were mute. 
For they knew well their master's scent, and now 
Licked his extended hands as he passed by. 
Short distance from the house a palm-tree stood. 
And now against the palm he spied a ladder ; — 
(With what nice art the devil helps on crime. 



44 COUNT C A MORA. 

As 't were by nature's accident !) — quick work 
For him to fix the ladder and to gain 
The roof of the piazza, right before 
His wife's bed-chamber window. 

" He paused before the open window, and 
Then o'er him crept a chilhng sense of dread 
Of what he yet must do, — what yet must come. 
But time sped fast and he must speed as fast I 
The dim rays of the lamp within showed him 
That room he knew so well ; that he had learned 
To cherish as the inmost, secret chamber 
Of this, the temple-palace of his love ! 
Showed him each piece of furniture, — each piece, 
It seemed to him, blessed and endeared by some 
Sweet legend of love's by-gone days ; and last, 
Showed him his nuptial couch — 

" He starts ! his very heart pauses to hear ! 
It is his wife's voice, — soft and sweet and low, 
And breathing words of luscious love ; such words 



COUNT CAMORA. 45 

As, he remembered, had a thousand times 

Made him a god in ecstasies of bliss ! — 

She might be dreaming, — talking in her sleep, -- 

Dreaming of him, and talking in her dream. 

But now he seems to hear another sound, 

As of some strange voice muffled in reply ; 

A voice that seems afraid of its own sound, 

And in a whisper seeks to hide itself. 

In his black mind Alva did name that voice ! 

And yet he paused, — even against his will. 

When once again his wife's voice smote the night 

Melodious as before, and sweet with love ; 

And then with little intermission urging — 

' Haste, Romero — haste ! haste I ' — and dying down 

Into a whisper, mingled with those sounds 

Alva had heard before, — like some strange voice 

Whispering low replies ; — the voice of — 

" Quick as the prompting impulse, Alva glided 
In through the window, — to the bedside, — and 
Thrusting his arm beneath the fast-drawn curtains. 



46 COUNT C A MORA. 

(Which he would not withdraw to gaze on guilt,) 
He plunged his steel deep — twice ! 

" This was not all ! What were his children now 
To him ? Perhaps — perhaps — No ! they must die, 
And with them every doubt ! Swift to their room 
He ran, and with his stiletto still red. 
There mingled with their mother's blood their own 

" He was avenged. 

His task was done ; and now unto his friends, 

For now he had found rest — much, lasting rest ! 

" Senora, he returned as he rode thither, — 
Save that each slave who tended his relay 
Had for his recompense a stab and death, 
And the discarded steed unbridled freedom." 

IV. 

' Still in his hall his guests sat deep in play 
As when he left them, but three short hours past ; 
And as he neared the table where he played, 



COUNT C A MORA. 47 

His partners, while the deal went round, remarked 
His quick return, — he had been absent scarce 
An half hour at the most ; he answered, — True, 
But he had found even in that short time 
Much rest, and longer he could not forbear 
Their company. Then sat he at the game 
Once more and played. 

" Scarce had the deal gone round, 
When entering at the door, and habited 
As one but just dismounted and arrived 
From some long, hasty journey, right before 
Don Alva stood Don Romero. As though 
A thunderbolt had shocked him Alva sprang, 
Smitten dead-white with terror from his seat. 
Don Romero ? — or was it not his ghost ? — 
His friends, startled, arose ; their rising saved him. 
Quickly he curbed too truthful nature that 
Had nigh broke loose its bonds unto betrayal, 
And calling Romero by name, (for 't was 
No ghost, but flesh and blood before him), -asked 



48 COUNT C A MORA. 

His errand, — if all things were well ? ' All well,' 
Was Romero's reply ; and for his errand 
Gave into Alva's hand a letter. Then 
With that bright, happy, careless mien which still 
Was his, he mingled with the guests. 

"But Alva?— 
Bidding his friends apart, he broke the seal 
And found the scroll his wife's, — penned in her fair 
And flowing character, — in her sweet, full 
And loving phrase. 'T was dated the first hour 
Of night, and penned, (she wrote) beside the window 
From whence she watched his leaving in the morn. 
(The same through which he entered in that night !) 
It told how she had felt the livelong day 
A strange foreboding of some coming ill, 
And how she feared it tokened harm to him ; 
How she remembered that his parting kiss 
Seemed like a parch upon her lips for hours, 
And that she feared he must be ill, for so 
His kisses never burnt before ; how she 



CO UN 7^ C AMOK A. 49 

In fine, wrought past all patience by her fears, 
Made bold to send this token of her fears, 
(Which yet were sweet for being love-born, and 
For him), — that he perchance would pity her 
Weak heart, and, pitying, greet her with the dawn. 
'T was at her strict command Don Romero 
Was bearer of her token, since Alva 
Must needs leave some one trusty in his stead 
The while he rode to her. Lastly, (she wrote) 
Their little babe, love's nursling in her arms, 
With his pure speechless lips had kissed the page, 
So praying him to come. 'T was thus, she said, 
She sealed with the pure stamp of love's last seal 
Her love-born, love-wrought page. 

" Again, and still 
Again Don Alva read the letter o'er. 
At length calling Don Romero, he asked 
What hour it was his wife had sent him forth. 
He answered : The first hour of night he started. 
And that he had sped hither with best speed, — 



50 COUNT CAMORA. 

With the last words the watching Countess spake — 

' Haste, Romero, haste, haste ! ' still urging him. 

Then Alva, taking Romero apart, 

Told him that Lola, his true wife, had sent. 

For him, and that he must set forth at once, 

And that without attendants, — yes, alone. 

Then bade he all farewell, giving his guests 

Into the charge of Romero, and left. 

Senora, he went not unto his wife ; — 

He went — no one knows whither ! yet, Seiiora, 

His grave is in the chapel, but — his body — 

Is not yet there — " 

The monk's voice faltered ; then was lost in silence. 
I thought I heard a footfall on the stones, 
And lo ! beside me stood my bride once more. 



AHASUERUS. 

A LEGEND OF THE WANDERING JEW, 

'T WAS Christmas Eve, — and night and stillness reigned. 
Alone we sat, my cherished wife and I, 
With lights turned low, — in memory of the time 
When dim lights made our young love burn more bright, — 
Before the study's cheerful glowing hearth. 
And, making pictures in the firelight there. 
Living again the happy years gone by, 
And building castles in the air for years 
To come, we marked not that the door, noiseless, 
Was opened, and a stranger entered, till 
His voice, with half a fright, had roused us ; then 
We saw him, standing midway in the room. 
His presence was commanding, — one to mark, — 
Full of majestic intellect and power ; 
His bearing full of a persuasive quiet, 

51 



52 AHASUERUS. 

That stamped him no intruder bent on ill, 
And banished fear from out our startled minds. 
Silent he stood a moment, while we wondered, 
And then he spake. 

— " I am Ahasuerus ! 
Behold me as I am, accurst with life ! 
Not as the aged and infirm with years. 
Whose life has lost the power of nourishment, 
Whose life is but a feeding upon self ! — 
Nor the bereft of health, whose mortal part 
Is but a failing pasture for disease, — 
A feast for slow corruption and decay ! 
Nor like the weary, whose o'erburdened soul 
Is crushed beneath life's every woe and care, 
Till each sore labored, yet life-giving breath 
Becomes an unavailing prayer for death ! 
No, not like these, — and yet accurst with life ! 

" Behold me as I am ! — this form erect. 
This master strength of sinew and of flesh. 
These youthful features, and this brow, 

4 



AHASUERUS. 53 

Behind whose front there lies a mind 

WTio'se deathless memory can unfold the things 

Of centuries past as thine can tell to-day's ; — 

While here, here in my breast there throbs a heart 

Whose steady pulses never cease to sound, 

The mockery eternal to my soul, 

Of life, — life, — life, — forever life, — forever ! 

" You smile ? — well, smile ! for ye are blest with death ! 
And ye should smile, and give forever thanks, 
Whose sight shall yet behold God's messenger, 
Who bids ye — Come ! whose thankful fate 
Still holds the mansion of the grave in store, — 
The only palace house God made for man. 
Nay ! pale not so to hear me speak, nor gaze 
With such mute, searching wonder in my face ; — 
And yet, it is not strange ; for once, I too 
Had paled and gazed, even as ye, to see 
What ye do see, — to hear what now ye hear." 

— He stopped ; and she who nestled at my side, 
Quick grasped my hand, and looked into my face, 



54 AHASUERttS. 

As though she wished he had not come, to break 
Our evening with his mystic strangeness, — 
Or wished him hence. But ere that I had found 
Speech for her wish, and mine, again he spake : — 

" Back, back through the dark vista dead years, 

Near twice ten centuries, and I was young ! 

Young, just man grown, in years, in thought, in deed. 

Then earth was beautiful, and life a blessing 

Whose end sometime — too soon if late, — was death. 

Then held I commune not with man alone. 

But, through the spirit instincts of my life, 

With God himself ; and lived my father's faith, 

Within the Law and Prophets, none more true. 

But dearer, far more beautiful than life, 

Was one whose being held my life in bond. 

Transforming it into a sacrament, — 

A thing however earthly, pure from stain ! 

" Even before me now I see her form 
Arise, robed in the fresh yet mellow beauty 
Of womanhood just known ! — shy womanhood, 



AHASUERUS. 55 

That half betrays the secret it would hide, 
In the quick, riper blush upon its cheek, — 
The brighter, trembling depth of its dark eye. 
But fairer than her form, however fair. 
And brighter than her eyes, whose glances teemed 
With the mute language of her soul, too pure 
For grosser sound, was her pure heart and mind. 
They breathed of life celestial upon earth. 
And spread a spirit halo ever round her, 
Within whose sphere all things were heavenly. 

" I loved my Reka, with a love whose strength 
Outbore my reason, and had made me beast, — 
Devil, — but that she curbed it with her love, 
And wrought my heart's wild chaos of mad passion 
Into a nature full of use and beauty, — 
Full of a loveliness formed after hers. 

" We were not wed ; time was for that when my 
New, love-born energy and thrift had reaped 
The wherewithal for love to thrive and prosper. 



56 AHASUERUS. 

And as the days passed on, bringing their fruit 
Of travail and success, each care was lightened, 
And the earned joy of gain made doubly sweet 
By her still patient hope's encouragement. 
'T was then strange rumors fell around, — at first 
From fearful lips, — anon from bolder ones, — 
Of how the prophecy had been fulfilled, 
And He, — Jehovah, King of Jews, — had come. 
Content, and faithful to my father's creed, 
I heeded not, and cared not if 't was true ; — 
For my Redeemer had already come. 
And tarried still in Reka's spotless soul ! 

" At length He came, this Christ the Nazarene, 
Unto our village home, and I beheld Him ; — 
And I beheld a man, — to me but — man ! 
He was no king, neither by right nor might. 
Who trod the lowly dust with unshod feet, 
And, crownless and enrobed in coarsest cloth, 
Made the low Gentiles his companions ! — preached 
Heaven to the poor and to the rich damnation ! 



AHASUERUS. 57 

King of the Jews ? — in scorn I scorned to laugh. 

What though His manliness was not like man's ? 

His majesty of mien unlike to man's ? 

His countenance full of compassion's love ? 

And His eye charged with light, whose piercing ray 

Seemed to espy the secrets of your soul, 

Until you trembled for their safety, — for 

Your own ? — Why this, uncommon though it was, 

Was but a trick that man might play, — had played 

Unnumbered times ere He had seen the light ! 

The son of David would be David's son, — 

And clothed in majesty superb, — complete ! 

The more I thought, my scorn was turned to laughter ! 

Till laugh, indeed, I did, when I beheld, 

As one among his band, Judas, the wise 

Iscariot, — whom I did know a man 

Without a soul for anything but gain, — 

For thrift ! and he was there, — yes, there for thrift ! 

" Full of the mockery that held the crowd 

With witless wonder, I sought Reka out. 

To share with her the jest, and laugh together. 



58 AHASUERUS. 

I found her — where, where think you ? — at His side ! 
Seated beside His footstool, with her face 
Upbent, and listening to the words which fell 
Charged with some purpose deep into her ear. 
My heart stood still ! — I called her ; she was mute. 
And then my heart leapt back to life again, 
To pulse no longer blood, but liquid fire, 
Till all my brain was seethed with jealousy ! 
Yes, jealousy ! — my eyes could not deceive me ; 
For in that look of hers, upturned to His, 
There shone a deeper and more earnest love 
Than e'er beamed from her eyes to welcome mine ! 
And yet, the torment of a clinging hope 
Flattered awhile my heart's poor vanity. 
And cooled my anger to a present peace. 
What I had seen might be perchance not love. 
But its void semblance, wizard-like compelled 
By this bold Nazarene himself ! " 

— Again 
He paused, and wiped the beads from off his brow. 
And we in silence waited. Soon he spake : — 



AHASUERUS. 59 

" Enough ! Reka was lost ! deep in her soul 

His seed had fallen and had swelled to life 

Even upon the instant of its fall. 

My words availed not ; she was deaf to all 

Save that new thing, the spirit of His creed, — 

Which bade men trample selfhood under foot ; 

Debased all worldly goods, and set on high 

The rank annihilation of this life 

To gain as price an unknown life hereafter ! 

True, she did love me still, she said ; with love 

So strong it bade her turn my wayward heart 

To Him, her Christ, whom we should then both follow, 

And so be reunited in our love. 

" Poor fool of woman ! but for them, His creed 
Had fallen to the dust, to find its grave ! 

" All nature, which but one short month before. 
Grew with the promise of love's bursting flower, 
Now shrank before my eyes a withered waste ; 
While my heart's sap grew thin with poisonous hate, 



6o AHASUERUS. 

And every breath I drew scented revenge. 

Judas Iscariot and I were friends ; — 

I sought him, and it took not long to sound 

The hollow of his empty heart. He too 

Had marked how woman was the Nazarene's 

Best prey ; — and more, an untouched, worthless prey ! 

That maddened him ; and added unto that, 

The glory of His Master shadowed his. 

He never was the Nazarene's disciple 

Saving in show, — he was too true to self. 

All this I learned, and daily, hourly fed 

My slow revenge with his slovy discontent, 

Until they grew companions and were one ! 

" At last, the judgment came, — and I was there ! 

I saw Him scourged, and salted every blow 

With my heart's curses ere and as it fell ! 

'T was I who plucked the briar and twined the crown 

Whose thorns pierced not His brow with half the 

prick 
His thorn of love had stabbed my riven heart I 



AHASUERUS. 6 1 

'T was I who mocked Him ! I who spat on Him ! 

Who first called out to set Barabbas free ! 

And I who, when the sentence had been passed, 

And from the Judgment He was led to death. 

And He did stagger — not like to a God, 

But like a tortured, broken-hearted man, — 

Struck Him once more, and roughly bade Him — On ! 

And then — Oh, ye eternal Heavens ! — then 

There seemed to flash before me in the air 

A trembling multitude of flaming swords, 

Clutched by invisible hands, each aimed to smite me ! 

When, lo ! a voice which came as 't were from Him, 

The Nazarene before me, and yet came 

As well from forth the peopled space above, 

Bore to my ears, with fatal sound, the words : — 

— / go — to Rest, — but ye go ofi fo?'ever ! " 

— Once more the speaker paused ; and o'er his face 
There spread a look such as I ne'er had seen, 
And ne'er would see again. 'T was pain and grief. 
And trembling, speechless terror all in one. 



62 AHASUERUS. 

And when again he found his voice, 't was hushed 
In semi-tones, scarce pitched above a whisper. 

" — 'I go — to Rest, — but ye go on forever.' — 

Those words, those words, — they seemed to course my 

veins 
With my heart's blood, to fill me with a strange 
Impulsive energy to travel on, — 
On with the crowd, unto the place of skulls ; 
— Though to mine inmost soul a dread had come 
Which would have bade me flee the place, — but could 

not ! 
No, no ! 't was doomed that I should see it all ; 
From the first nail, until that final cry, 
That rang throughout the darkened air, like the 
Clear echo of a silvery clarion. 
Proclaiming victory to all the world,— 
Proclaiming warning unto all the world, — 
Proclaiming unto me, my seal of doom, — 
The earthquake, — utter darkness and despair 
— I fled in terror from the place, with still 



AHASUERUS. 63 

Those fatal, fateful words within my ear, — 
' I go — to Rest, — but ye go on forever.' " 

— With a wild, weary, hollow laugh he stopped. 

But only for an instant, then again 

With stronger and yet failing voice began. 

*' Go on forever ? — God's will must be done ! 

'T was God, — I knew it then, I know it now, 

Whose mortal lips pronounced my fearful doom ; — 

And still my body and my soul are one ! 

And the dead years and future centuries, 

With all their garnered harvests of sweet death, 

Have passed, and still must pass me by unharmed. 

Earth ne'er beheld a carnival of death 

Where I was not with eager heart striving 

To win the dreadful angel to my side. 

And cast earth's living bondage from my soul. 

In vain ! he gathered all from either hand 

And passed me by, with a strange smile of pain, 

That planted in my heart new sense of misery. 



64 AHASUERUS. 

" Once, — once, long centuries ago, there came 

A moment's respite to the wasting pain 

Whose agony seemed but to feed my life, 

Not to destroy ! 'T was when I dreamed, or else 

Dreamt that I dreamed, — that Reka came to me ; — 

Clothed in her youth and beauty as of old. 

And all her countenance awake with love 

Like to the old, — and yet not like the old, 

In lacking passion's soft insinuating fire. 

And as she gazed upon me, full of pity 

That ruffled not but soothed my troubled soul, 

Methought I heard her call me by my name, 

And say — 'Patient, — be patient to the end. 

Who bears God's will, with Christ climbs up to God. 

When all is done, Reka shall come for thee ? ' " 

— With a faint moan he sank unto the floor. 
And hid his face within his hands and wept, 
While only his low sobs disturbed the silence. 
Then through the midnight air without, the bells 
Pealed forth their summons unto midnight prayer. 



AHASUERUS. 65 

On their first stroke, a tremor seized his frame ; 

His palm sought palm in tense, convulsive clutch ; 

And partly rising to his knee, with face 

Upturned, and tearless, earnest gaze he stared 

Into the dim-lit vacancy before him. 

A moment thus, and then he bounded up, 

With lifted gaze and outstretched, pleading arms, 

As though he 'd mount the immaterial air 

And upward climb into the space above him, — 

And shrieked — " 'T is Reka — Reka ! she has come, — 

It is the end — the end ! " — then backward fell. 

Dead at our feet. 

— It was indeed the end. 
Even as we bent o'er him, with vain hands 
Striving to fan the vital spark, whose warmth 
Still lingered, back into a living flame. 
The door was opened and before us stood 
His Keeper, full of anxious fear. One look. 
And all was told without the need of words. 
— God grant his madness ended with his breath. 



SOMEWHERE. 

Somewhere there blows 
Myrtle and Rose 

And Cedar for me ; 
But where, no one knows, 
Or may not disclose 

The secret to me. 

Somewhere a heart 
Is blooming apart 

For love and for me ; 
But where, none will tell. 
Dear Heart, is it well 

For thee, or for me ? 
66 



SOME WHERE. 6"/ 

Somewhere a grief — 
A skeleton thief — 

Is lurking for me ; 
Where ? only One knows 
Who hides future woes 

Somewhere from me. 



A WEDDING GIFT IN RHYME. 

Since Adam's bride in paradise 

Arose before his wondering eyes, 

And with her beauty wrought the spell 

Within whose charm man still must dwell ; 

Since Sheba's queen in gorgeous guise 

Conquered the wisest of the wise ; 

Since Cleopatra's serpent ways ; 

Since Helen's love-won blood-stained bays ; 

Since Heloise with subtle brain 

Won more than simple heart could gain ; 

Each son of Adam, daughter of Eve, 

Hath had from love but short reprieve, 

And sometime, somewhere, in some life 

Must mate as husband or as wife. 

And lo. Eve's spell, — that in each breast 
Rouses for peace its sweet unrest, — 
s 68 



A WEDDING GIFT IN RHYME. 69 

Hath bound in one our Groom and Bride, 
Who greet us, in their new wed pride, 
With buoyant words and happy smiles, — 
Bright omens of bright afterwhiles. 
Of future hours to years full-grown 
Ripe with the blessings all love's own. 

Oh thou whose lordly right is still 

To mete out joy, to shield from ill, 

To fill the measure of her hope with wine 

Rich with the blood of life's strong vine, — 

Her heart a lavish tribute pays 

Crowning thee king of all her days ! 

And thou, whose spirit's guiding beam 
Must beacon his through life's veiled stream, 
Beneath whose true eye's constant ray 
His life shall reach love's higher day, 
Upon thy brow he placed a crown 
Greater than any of renown. 
Crowning thee thus with his own life 
And Heaven's mystic name of Wife. 



NIAGARA. 

Before — the bright green waters 

In listless madness fly, 
Leap shouting smoothly downward, 

Mount mistful, white to sky. 

Above — the bright sun shining. 

Kisses the dancing spray, 
Till smiling it blushes all colors 

And in gladness melts away. 

O heart ! with your tireless torrent 
Of doubt, and cataract fears. 

Love's sunshine still kisses to blushes. 
And scatters your mist and tears. 



70 



WHAT IS LOVE ? 



I ASKED a maiden : — " What is love ? " — 
As we wandered through the night, 

Beneath the gaze of the listening moon 
And the stars' dim, bashful light. 

The maiden, catching my longing eye, 
Smiled as she blushed and made reply : 

" What is love ? — 'T is laughing, crying. 
Over phantom joys and fears ; 

A little truth and much of lying, 
To fill up life's weary years." 



I asked a matron : — '* What is love ? "- 
As I sat by her side one night, 
71 



72 ■ IVBA T IS LOVE? 

While without the moonbeams struggling fell, 
And the stars were hid from sight. 

The matron smiled as she caught my eye, 
And kissed her babe ere she made reply : 

"What is love? — 't is God, 't is heaven, 
'Tis faith, and trust, and truth ; 

A gift to man divinely given. 
To make all life all youth ! " 



A LOVE SONG. 

Tell me not where roses blow, — 

Tell me, where do roses go 

When their sweet leaves, one by one, 

Perish 'neath the rain and sun ? 
As I questioned, came reply, 
From a voice that nestled by : — 

Roses when earth's beauty dies 

Bloom afresh in Paradise. 

Tell not whence affections flow, — 
Tell me where our life-loves go. 
When our senses, breath by breath. 
Chill into all-senseless death ? 
While I questioned, came reply. 
From the love close nestled by : — 
Earthly loves with souls arise 
Still to live in Paradise. 
73 



ROMANCE. 



Wilt thou love, thou Maiden sweet ? 
Learn to blush when glances meet ? 
With a sigh a sigh to greet ? 
Know life's fullest joy ? 

Full of smiles, the Maiden shy, 
Hid the secrets of her eye, 
While her blushes told me why 
In their language coy. 



Wilt thou marry. Maiden fair ? 
Orange blossoms in thy hair, 
And adorned with jewels rare. 
Wilt thou be a bride ? 
74 



KOAfAJVCE. 



Born of trembling joy and fear, 
From her eyelids fell a tear, 
While her heart in flutterings dear 
Told it was her pride. 

III. 

Bride and groom at altar stand, — 
Strength and beauty hand in hand ; 
Blest is now love's holy band — 
Stand they Man and Wife. 

Maid that was, in life to come 
Love's best temple is thy home ; 
Man, 'tis thine, where'er ye roam. 
There to shrine her life. 



LOVING IS LIFE'S MEASURE. 



I. 

Be others rich, be others rare, 

Be smiles of beauty everywhere, 

Let all the world 'gainst thee declare, 

Yet constant still I 'd love thee ! 
Thy heart is wealth enough for me. 
Thy beauty all I care to see, 
And life should fail ere I shall flee 

From thee, or seek above thee ! 



When from thine eyes thy soul is beaming, 
And on thy sigh sweet love seems dreaming, 
And thy soft voice with passion 's teeming, 
76 



LOVING IS LIFE'S MEASURE. Jf 

To love thee is life's pleasure ; 
But when thine eyes fill o'er with tears, 
And in thy sighs are trembling fears, 
Then find I — sorrow most endears, 

And loving is life's measure ! 



M'AIMEE. 

As the green maize upward springs 
From the warmth which summer brings, 

Springs my love from thee, m'atm^e ! 
As the swallows southward fly 
When the winter's chill is nigh. 

Flies my heart to thee, m'aim/e ! 

Like an oak with vines carest, 
With their fragrant blossoms blest, 

Is my life with thee, niaunie ! 
And as with strong vines entwined 
Oaks are safer from the wind, 

So my soul with thee, m'aim/e ! 
78 



M'AIMEE. ^g 

Life would be but one long sorrow, 
Like a night without a morrow, 

Parted still from thee, maimee ! 
And as dies a heart that 's broken. 
Slowly, with no word or token. 

Dies my heart from thee, m'aim'ee ! 



A PORTRAIT. 

Oh fair, sweet, gentle, speaking face, 

That from the living canvas gazed on me 
With eyes of modest, conquering witchery, 

You haunt me strangely still, all time, all place ! 

That pensive smile, coy beauty's winning grace. 
That head bowed down in watchful reverie. 
That sunny hair cast wild in revelry, 

That brow where mind and heart we both may trace, 

They speak such thoughts as the rich evening sky 
Breathes unto him who tracks its faiHng flame 

Through twilight's veil to night's unfathomed hue ;- 

Thoughts which but live their happy lives to die, — 
Of high ambition, honor, lasting fame ; 

Of love, the beautiful, the good, the true ! 



80 



INSPIRATION. 

A POET engaged to furnish a rhyme, 
And to have it complete by a certain time, 

Delayed to the very last minute ; 
For inspiration was the only thing 
That truly could make a true poet sing 

A song that had anything in it. 

Thus the " devil," alas ! as ever, on time. 

Found pains for his pains, for he found no rhyme. 

And swore at the poet right roundly, — 
Which angered the poet, who roundly then swore 
Whatever he did he would rhyme no more, 

And beat the poor " devil " right soundly. 

But scarce had the poet's wont calmness come o'er him, 
When an " angel," — the landlady's daughter, before him 
Stood, with a blush and a smile on her face ; 



82 INSPlRA TION. 

And sheepishly begged him to write her a verse 
If but only four lines — for better or worse, — 
To give to her Album a richer grace. 

He took, and he wrote, — but instead of four 
He wrote a dozen of stanzas or more, 

For there Inspiration stood smiling, — 
With a blush on her cheek, and a longing eye. 
And a coaxer or two in a smothered sigh, 

His muse to its fancy beguiling. 

The moral is true, although it is plain ; 
The Devil will fail when an Angel will gain. 

And true inspiration is needed ; 
And if it appear in a bodice and skirt, 
The fact is as patent and common as dirt, 

It never will fail to be heeded. 



THE ATHEIST 



A MODERN MASQUE 



THE ATHEIST. 



A MODERN MASQUE. 



Christmas Eve — The Atheist's Chamber, overlooking the 
City — The Atheist, alone. 



Chorus of Devils, in Hell. 

Thou unvanquished, though defeated, 

Spirit infinite of Light, 
Still in every bosom seated, 

Throned in never yielding might ; 
Fallen, still of Heaven's greatest, — 

Thou too wear'st a martyr's crown, 
And Time's earliest and latest 

Vie to echo thy renown. 
85 



86 THE ATHEIST. 

The usurper, the victorious, 

Self-appointed Lord of all, 
Boasts no victory so glorious. 

As the battle of thy fall : 
For of angels thou wert brightest. 

For thy works most splendid shone, 
For thy votaries' hearts were lightest. 

And thy priests were full thine own. 

His be then the boasted glory. 

Thine the glory of the gain, — 
His, the far reechoed story, 

Thine, the silent, secret reign ! 
Though of earth all kind adore Him,— 

Praise as good the woes He gave, — 
Every cringing soul before Him 

Is in secret thy sworn slave. 



THE ATHEIST {solus). 

And this is life ! a little while to feel 

Kind Nature's sweets, then be resolved in nothing ! 



THE ATHEIST. %•] 

Lost even in an unseen respiration — 
Less than the echo of a whispered sigh ; 
And while we live, live only to acquire 
A growing sense of our own littleness, 
Till we become a jest unto ourselves — 
A wreck, self-ridiculed and self-despised ! 

{^Laughs^ 
Our span of being is a little more 
Than the bright butterfly's — our happiness 
Much less — and that the only difference. 
All that has healthful being, and the sense 
To feel and to enjoy, can boast more bliss 
Than man, who boasts the power of thought, 
And calls himself the lord of earthly kind. 
Why should not man then rather be a beast 
And grovel in contentment, than be thus 
Winged with the aspirations of a god 
To soar, however high, to discontent ! 

{(Church bells heard ringing through the city.) 
The bells, for midnight Mass — Alas, poor man ! 
Whose final, only consolation is a myth 



88 THE ATHEIST. 

Wrought deftly from his own conceit and pride ; 
A tale of superstition told so oft 
It hath become the semblance of a truth 
Inwrought indelibly into himself ! 

{^As he pours out wine in a glass, there enters, unseen, one 

shrouded in a priest's gown and cowl, who, 

as he is about to drink, speaks.) 

THE PRIEST. 

Drink not, save from the chalice of His blood ! 

THE ATHEIST. 

{Starting, putting down the glass.) 

How came ye, priest ? and whence ? and wherefore ? 
speak ! 

THE PRIEST. 

By that straight path that leads to those who need, 
From One who wills ye good, — perchance for good. 

THE ATHEIST {laughing.) 

A thousand times I have heard such like words. 
And still a thousand times been left — unchanged ! 



THE ATHEIST. 89 

Your texts, your arguments, I have heard all — 

Yes ! preached them to myself with will attent — 

Yet ever to their condemnation — all ! 

There is no God, who, merciful, condemns ; 

No righteous One, who makes but to destroy ! 

From nothing, from a never-dying law 

We come, and thence to nothing we return ; 

And they go first, who violate that law 

And suffer its unfailing execution. 

This much alone man knows — priests know not more. 

A VOICE. 

{Passing in the street below, singing.) 

Once in the life of every heart. 

Pure, steadfast, strangely bright. 
The Star of Bethlehem shines out 

Upon its lonely night ; 
And startled from its shepherd watch 

The sleepy soul enthrills 
With a new life, about to be 

The new born end of ills. 



90 THE ATHEIST. 



THE PRIEST. 

" Once in the life of every heart," — and thine ? 
You pause, — you turn away. 

THE ATHEIST. 

Question not, priest ! 
The deeds entombed within the past are dust, 
Like ashes of dead men, unlike themselves, — 
And no one seeks in them their living likeness. 

A MAIDEN. 

{^Passing in the street below, si?iging.') 

Deep in the ocean's deep 

The purest pearls are found ; 
Deep in the dark earth's keep 

The richest gems abound : 
But deeper hidden than these, 

And priceless far above, 
Deep in the heart's sweet mysteries. 

Lies hid the jewel love ! 



THE ATHEIST. 91 



THE PRIEST. 

Love only lives within celestial soil ; 

And he who loves bears heaven within his breast, 

Although in ignorance. 

THE ATHEIST. 

Priest, once I too 
Thought love an attribute divine, and lent 
To mortals to make sordid life more sweet, 
And tempt them heavenward by foretaste of heaven. 
But I was new to life then, and I loved. 
'T was like a dream of childhood's peaceful sleep, 
Full of bright, stranger beauties. There still lives 
Within my heart the memory of its sunshine, — 
And there, too, lives the greater memory still. 
Of the black thunder-cloud that wrought its ruin ! 

We had been raised together, — boy and girl, — 
And all our childhood whims grew counterparts. 
Until our years were ripe for flower and fruit. 
Then she — she was shut out from life, from joy, 



92 THE ATHEIST. 

Within a convent's wall ; while I went forth 

Into the busy, battling world of men, 

To gain man's heritage of strife and scar. 

When next we met, I was a bearded man. 

And she — I had seen many fair, and some 

Accounted beautiful above the rest — 

But she excelled them all ! Something there seemed 

About her that bespoke not earth, but heaven, 

And won my mad idolatry at sight. 

'T was then my dream of love was ; and it lasted 

Until your God, — yes, your God — stepped between us 

Weighed me, and found me wanting in the scale 

Of cant, hypocrisy, pretense to things 

Which truth and manhood could not dare profess, — 

Vet which His priesthood held for blind belief, — 

For faith unquestioned, from a thoughtless crowd. 

'T was then my dream fled ; — for she had been won 

By such as you, whose subtle mastery 

Poisoned her heart against me, till at last 

I came to be a thing abhorred — though loved ; 

An evil spirit doomed to lasting hell, 



THE ATHEIST. 93 

Unless, — good, simple soul, — her prayers could save 

me, 
Her life of cloistered penitence wash out 
My sins ! — So much I trusted, loved her then, 
That even I was shaken, and in fear 
Half doubted for myself. But time and facts 
Dispelled all doubts and fears : — her life was wrecked, 
Full freighted with youth's bountiful desires. 
Upon the rocks of blind, fanatic faith ; 
Her life was lost, — her womanhood discarded, — 
Her end and place in nature unfulfilled. 
Her very being a self-created void ! 

THE PRIEST. 

No, not so ! for behold — 

{^Throws off tJie robe and cowl and discovers a beauti- 
ful woman ^ 

(the atheist starting up.) 

Is this enchantment ? 

Thou, thou of whom I have been speaking, here ? 



94 THE ATHEIST. 

THE LADY. 

Yes, here in flesh and blood, in womanhood ! 
Here from the nunnery to be thy bride — 
Nay, more than that, thy guiding, saving angel ; 
To lead thee to a knowledge of thyself, 
And show thee how, despite thy scoffs, 
Thy vaunted infidelity to faith, 
Thou art at heart a very child of God. 
Speak not — hear me. 

Within the convent walls 
My life passed idly day by day in prayer 
For thee, and all was lost in thoughts of thee. 
Think not that there, though shut up from the 

world, 
The world can enter not to those who seek it. 
So every day, something I heard of thee ; 
Heard of thy jeers and scoffs at things called holy ; 
Thy unrepentant sacrilege, and most 
Thy shameless jests on such as I was there. 
But, too, I heard, how all thy deeds to man 



THE ATHEIST. 95 

Were fraught with greatest good ; how in your life 
You preached no standard, save by acts — all good ; 
How, singled from thy kind, as a lost soul, 
Doomed by the Church to its eternal hell, 
Instead of shunnings, curses and damnations. 
Thy way was everywhere bestrewn with blessings — 
The fruits of thy own sowing, lavished on thee 
By those who, all despite thy branded name. 
Knew thee a messenger of God — of Him, 
Whose life is love — whose love is still to do ! 
What was I then compared with thee ? nothing ! 
In all my days of prayer, not one stood forth 
Crowned with a living act of good ; not one 
Smiled at me from the past for joy bestowed, 
For sorrow eased, for trouble comforted. 
Then in my heart the Star of Bethlehem 
Rose steadfast, pure, and strangely bright, and in 
My soul I felt the quickening of new life ; 
And led as were the shepherds on that night 
Of old, I followed till the star stood still 
Above thy threshold — here above thy head. 



96 THE ATHEIST. 

THE ATHEIST. 

Have you then broken faith, forsworn your vows, 
To seek, to follow me, the branded one ? 

THE LADY. 

I have forsworn no vows ; the Church that took them, 

True to its aim, its purpose still for best. 

Returns me to the world and to myself ; 

Nor have I broken, have I lost my faith. 

But have gained greater faith — the faith to do ! 

( Voices of children, passing, heard singing ** Christmas 
Carols " in the street below ^ 



Chorus of Devils, in Hell. 

Like a dream forever lost 
In the caverns of sleep, 

Like a jewel far tossed 
In the depths of the deep. 

Like an arrow's lost flight. 

Like a meteor's lost light. 



THE ATHEIST. 97 

Each hope that ye cherish — 
Be it born but to perish. 

Like a rock rent asunder 
By an earthquake's thunder ; 
Like a ship storm-driven, 
In darkness rock-riven ; 
Like the cleft semi-note 
In a murdered bird's throat ; 
Like music death-hushed, 
Like a diamond crushed, 
May your hearts with fine pain 
Be tortured in twain ! 



CRITICS— A LIBEL. 

Once Jove and Vulcan, for a jest, 
To try whose skill should prove the best, 
A wager made. Each should create 
A man, to rank among men great ; 
Fashion and feature, heart and mind, 
Fairest and best of all the kind. 

Imperial Jove, with godlike thought, 
Of godlike soul the Poet wrought ; 
Of fashion fair, and spirit face. 
Beauty and strength in wedded grace ; 
And in his hand he placed Fame's quill, 
And bade him write his name at will. 

The mighty smith, in forge-array, 
Laughed loud and bold, to fright dismay- 
Viewing the work his rival wrought. 



CRITICS^ A LIBEL. C)C) 

While hints from Jove he slyly caught, 
Till, wondrous strange, his master-creature 
Was twin to Jove's in form and feature. 

In form and feature, — but no more ! 
For in his mind, alack ! he bore, 
'Midst overheat and sickly flame 
(A Critic's heritage and fame !) 
The smithy's soot and windy roar. 
And Vulcan's envy, sadly sore. 

The days of Jove and Vulcan lie 

Buried in immortality : 

Their works survive. — The Poet's fire 

Still brightly burns and mounts the higher ; 

And still the Critic's envious roar 

Is hapless man's untrammeled bore ! 



LIBRARY OF CONGREbb 

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